


Renaissance Men

by BradyGirl_12



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Historical, Art, Artists, Bingo, Bingo Card, Challenge Response, Drama, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical, M/M, Male Slash, Renaissance Era, Romance, Sculpture, Sex, Sexual Content, Slash, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-11-16 23:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11263668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BradyGirl_12/pseuds/BradyGirl_12
Summary: Brando Venucci is a great artist/sculptor/jeweler in Renaissance Florence and is desperately in love with his beautiful model, Riccardo Graciano, the centerpiece of an ambitious artistic project which will make them forever famous.





	1. Morning Light

**Author's Note:**

> Claim: For my 2017 [Bruce/Dick Bingo Card](http://bradygirl-12.dreamwidth.org/5052740.html).  
> Prompt: _Write That Art!_  
>  Pattern: Row B (Straight/Vertical Line Bingo) (1/3)  
> Prompt Count: (6/9)  
> Warnings: None  
> Spoilers: None  
> Original DW/LJ Dates Of Completion: April 16, 29, May 5, 19, 29, 2017  
> Original DW/LJ Dates Of Posting: June 21, July 16, August 11, 19, 29, 2017  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC does, more’s the pity.  
> Original DW/LJ Word Count: 1897 + 1502 + 1622 + 1765 + 1662 = (Total: 8,448)  
> Feedback welcome and appreciated.  
> Author’s Notes: All chapters can be found [here.](http://bradygirl-12.dreamwidth.org/3846941.html)  
> Merry Summer Solstice! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brando welcomes his favorite model to his studio.

_The rays of the sun_  
_Make golden_  
_The sodden earth_  
_As the winds blow_  
_A gentle zephyr_  
_Among stone_  
_And cobbles._

  


**Marco Martellini**  
**_“Florence In Light”_**  
**1547 C.E.**

  
Brando Venucci snatched up an apple from a vendor’s stall and tossed a coin at the complaining vendor. He strutted through the piazza, enjoying the warm Italian sun and listening to the shouts and chatter of hawkers and customers. Somewhere a seller was cooking sausage over a brazier, and Brando’s mouth watered. It was a glorious day in Florence, and he was at the height of his artistic powers.

He bit into the apple and savored its sweetness. Mornings were always the promise of a brand new day, though if truth be known, he preferred the night. Yet painting required light, and sculpture required precision. Light was needed to see.

He waved to several acquaintances, considering a stop at The Bird Of Paradise, the local watering hole. He bypassed it, eager to continue working on his latest projects. He had so many! That pretender Cellini thought he was the toast of Florence.

“Bah! I am!” He waved his hands in a windmill motion. 

Several people looked at him, but others were used to the resident artist/sculptor talking to himself. Did not the talented ones all do the same?

Brando Venucci was a handsome man. Well-muscled and usually dressed in shabby tunics and breeches, his coal-black hair was wild and he wore a full beard. Blue eyes the color of the sky at dusk saw everything and missed nothing.

His temper was volatile. Most people steered clear if he was staggering out of the The Bird Of Paradise, because he was not a happy drunk, and that was on a good day. 

Brando smirked as he entered his dwelling, pleased to see his apprentices hard at work.

Jason’s mother had been Greek and had named him after the legend of Jason and the Argonauts, and Timotheus’ father was posted in Gaul, of all places, so Brando had taken him in so the boy could learn a trade while his parents were away, as his mother was a camp follower.

“Is the kiln fired up?” Brando asked.

“Yes, Master.” Timotheus pointed to the kiln. “All ready for the casting.”

“Good.”

Brando stuffed the apple core in his pocket and began to work.

& & & & & &

Brando was immersed in his work. The casting of this piece of jewelry was very important to him. He wanted it to be perfect. It was not for some noble, like the Medici. It was someone far more important.

Finally, Timotheus said, ‘Tis done, sir.”

“Yes. Let it cool.” Brando wiped his face with a rag. “I am going upstairs.”

Brando walked up the creaky wooden stairs and emerged into his sunlit upper suite. Light was essential for his painting. A half-finished canvas was set to one side, covered by a clean cloth.

He strode over to the easel and yanked off the cloth, eyeing the canvas. His critical eye was dissatisfied, but since that was usually the case, he did not worry about it. He replaced the cloth and inspected his small pots of paint. His model would be here soon.

His model.

Brando’s pulse quickened and his hand trembled slightly as he picked up a paintbrush. He turned slowly, noting the couch he often used with his subjects and the bed against the wall with a gauzy veil hanging from the canopy for privacy when drawn. The walls could use a fresh coat of paint, but otherwise the genteel shabbiness suited an artist’s rooms.

_A great artist._

Once upon a time, he had hidden his light under a bushel. No more. He was Brando Venucci, gifted by God to create beauty.

_And to appreciate it._

His model, Riccardo Graciano, was highly prized. His presence glowed in paintings, and Brando was determined to immortalize him in sculpture.

He would have made the Classical Greeks weep.

His ray of sunshine was alluring. Brando checked his wine supply. Enough, but he was low on fruit. He bellowed, “Timotheus!”

The youth appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Yes, Master Venucci?”

“I need fresh fruit. Go to the market quickly.” Brando threw a bag of coins down and it clinked noisily as Timotheus caught it. He dashed off.

Brando changed into his paint-spattered workclothes and gave his hair and beard a quick combing. He grasped the small pendant he wore on a gold chain around his neck. The pendant resembled a book, studded with tiny sapphires as it spelled out the title _The Lovers_. A single yellow stone sparkled in the center. The work was very fine and detailed, right down to the leaves showing at the top of the closed volume.

One of my finest creations.

His mind wandered until Timotheus clambered up the stairs. “Here you go.”

“Put it all in the bowl.”

Timotheus carefully arranged the fruit in a golden bowl, a gift from the Medicis.

“Take a few pieces for yourself and Jason.”

“Grazie, Master.”

Timotheus hurried downstairs carrying the lush fruit. His voice drifted upward, “Hello, Riccardo!”

“Good morning, Tim.”

Timotheus always loved seeing Riccardo. Brando smiled as he heard the delight in the youth’s voice.

Riccardo walked up the stairs with so light a tread that the worn wood did not creak. He emerged from the stairwell and smiled. “Good morning, Brando.” His smile was brilliant as he moved gracefully toward the artist. 

Riccardo Graciano wore brightly-colored scarves and a tunic of good quality. As an in-demand model, he earned good coin. He wore strands of gold, some with teardrop jewels, and a gold ring. He wore soft leather boots and yellow and green feathers held in place in his hair by a jeweled clip. He was flamboyant as bracelets jangled when he smoothed back his glossy dark hair.

“Good morning, my Sunshine.”

Riccardo moved closer to his patron. He smelled faintly of citrus. “Shall we enjoy a little vino before we start?”

Brando grinned. “Surely, why not?”

They clinked glasses and drank lustily. When Riccardo had drained his glass, he set it down on the table and removed his scarves except for the green one, putting on the yellow silk cape he wore for the painting-in-progress. His crimson tunic completed the riotous colors. He smiled his half-smirk and walked casually to the spot in the room where the morning light was best.

Brando took the cloth off the easel, studied the painting, and began to paint.

There was silence for several minutes as the muffled sounds of voices drifted up the stairwell from the first floor, and an occasional vendor’s cry penetrated through the closed windows of the studio. Brando felt energized as he absorbed the beauty of Riccardo’s face, the lush lips not too full but sensuous, his sapphire-blue eyes sparkling. Glossy raven locks spilled over into his eyes and brushed his collar. 

He was slim yet a bit broad in the shoulders, and his thighs were powerful. Brando smirked as he thought of how he had discovered that little fact.

At any rate, Riccardo was a model much in demand. Brando was fortunate to get him as often as he did to pose.

He continued painting, pleased at the morning light. It was just perfect! He could feel his creativity flowing.

The silence between them was never uncomfortable. Despite Riccardo’s fondness for chatter, he also knew when to keep silent, a trait that Brando wished more models possessed.

But then, sometimes talk was good. As he stroked his brush across the canvas, Brando said loftily, “I am planning another project for you.”

“Oh?” The younger man sounded interested. His pose was natural, his head slightly tilted to best catch the light across the planes of his face. “Pray tell.”

Brando’s brush hovered around Riccardo’s lips on the canvas. Yes, just…so! He brandished his paintbrush toward the ceiling. _“Magnifico!_ I have captured it!”

“What?”

“Your enigmatic smile, my Nightingale. Ha, and they say Leonardo’s Mona Lisa is a masterpiece.”

Riccardo nearly burst out laughing. “No false modesty for you, Venucci.”

 _“Si!_ Why should I? Bah, they say Cellini and Da Vinci are the standards. Well, I, Brando Venucci, say that I am just as good!” Brando threw his brush down. “There! _Finito!”_

Riccardo came around to view the work. He studied it, Brando holding his breath. Despite his bravado, he dearly wanted his beautiful model to recognize his greatness. Riccardo fingered his necklaces. Finally he pronounced his verdict.

 _“Magnifico!”_ He gestured expansively.

Brando beamed. He grabbed Riccardo’s shoulders and kissed him lustily. Riccardo responded enthusiastically and they stumbled toward the bed. Paint-spattered hands divested Riccardo of his clothes, boldly roaming over the exquisite body. He cupped the perfect ass, squeezing hard, and Riccardo moaned breathily in his ear. Brando spanked him and threw his lover down on the bed, Riccardo looking up with a sultry gaze as his mouth curved salaciously. 

Brando tossed off his own sash and tunic and kicked off his sandals. He pulled off his breeches, already half-erect, his seed beginning to leak from the tip of his cock. He climbed onto the bed and straddled Riccardo, tweaking his companion’s nipples. Riccardo moaned and he arched up, his own erection rubbing against Brando’s. The friction made the artist’s nerves tingle all the way up to his scalp.

Brando’s rough hands rubbed Riccardo’s stomach and reached for his legs, bending them back and exposing his smooth buttocks. Brando took a jar from the window ledge and smeared generous dollops onto overheated skin, preparing them both. With a wide grin, Brando rammed his cock into Riccardo’s body.

Riccardo’s head jerked back as he groaned, grabbing onto two leather straps nailed to the wall by Brando for just this purpose. Brando pounded hard, desperate for release as Riccardo growled, “Harder!”

Brando grinned again as he thrust hard, Riccardo’s expression pure bliss. His chest heaved as Brando rode him, mixing endearments with ribald talk. Sweat slicked his skin as he closed his eyes to enjoy the exquisite sensations. He cried out at one particularly sharp thrust.

“Bella!”

Brando grunted and his body shook with the strain of orgasm. His cock spurted over Riccardo’s belly and Riccardo came seconds later.

& & & & & &

The afternoon sunlight slanted across the studio. Two bodies were entangled on the bed as they slept peacefully. A sheet was draped over their bodies, Riccardo’s leg sticking out as Brando’s arm draped over his lover’s chest.

Brando stirred awake. He lay behind Riccardo and kissed the younger man’s shoulder. Riccardo moved, a smile on his face.

“You are sweeter than wine,” Brando whispered, nuzzling Riccardo’s neck.

Riccardo’s smile turned lazy. “You are like an orange: tart but sweet.” 

“Flatterer!”

Riccardo laughed. “You are right, I should not encourage you. Your head already has difficulty fitting through the door.”

“Ah, sharp-tongued jester you are.” Brando smirked as he licked Riccardo’s ear.

“You want me again?”

“Always.” Brando lightly bit Riccardo’s shoulder. “But I wish to speak to you about my new project.”

“It will be a grand one, I suppose.”

“Of course! It will surpass Cellini’s Medusa!”

“Really?” Riccardo was amused.

“It will rival Michelangelo’s David!” Brando gestured excitedly. “It will surpass it!”

Riccardo looked over at his companion. “You never think small, do you?”

Brando beamed. “Why bother? Big or nothing!”

Riccardo laughed as he rolled over on top of Brando.


	2. Celestial Spheres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Project begins.

_“The artist must always listen to the celestial spheres.”_

  


**Antonio Veritucci**  
**Italian Artist,**  
**Sculptor, & Jeweler**  
**1559 C.E.**

  
The Great Project was to begin immediately. Riccardo assented to being the model, excited by Brando’s enthusiasm. On the first day he arrived right after breakfast, dressed in his rainbow finery. He said good morning to Timotheus and Jason and went upstairs.

“Ah, good!” Brando was dressed in a light-colored muslin tunic free of paint. Today was for sketching, not painting. He wore a simple gold necklace and a ring that he always wore. A beautiful sapphire sparkled in its gold setting. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?” Brando was always generous with his gifts.

“Si.” Brando handed Riccardo a polished wooden box. “Open it.”

Riccardo did and gasped. _“Magnifico!”_ He took out the heavy, beaten-gold necklace with jewels arranged in a star design. The colors were red, green, yellow and blue and beautifully polished.

“It is yours.” Brando smiled. “A celebration of the Great Project.”

Brando watched his lover’s face carefully. He wanted Riccardo to fully appreciate this gesture. His model not only had beauty but brains, coupled with intuitive insight. Even the sharp intelligence of his apprentices could not outpace Riccardo’s gifts.

“It is a fitting gift, _amico mio_. It is worthy of your Great Project.”

Brando beamed. Of course Riccardo understood. He was special, indeed.

“Let us begin!” Brando sat in a wooden chair and balanced his sketchpad on his knee.

& & & & & &

Riccardo nodded and began undressing, unpeeling like it was the Dance of the Seven Veils. He tossed everything on the divan and faced Brando, unabashedly nude.

Brando choreographed Riccardo’s various poses, seeking the perfect one. It had to be just right. If it took more than one session to get it, so be it.

Riccardo was patient, understanding that the pose was everything. Brando barked out orders but also asked for his opinions, not always the case with artists. 

“It cannot be like David,” Brando muttered. He made a few preliminary sketches but quickly discarded them, the pages fluttering to the floor. He scowled and grunted and gesticulated, all routine as Riccardo smiled.

Finally Brando sighed and tossed the sketchpad onto the floor. “Impossible!” He pulled at his wild thatch of hair.

“We will try again tomorrow,” Riccardo soothed. He started to get dressed.

Brando cursed himself for incompetence while Riccardo remained calm. He had seen this act many times before. There would be shouts and curses and recriminations, and Brando would be ready to work again tomorrow.

“We must eat,” Riccardo said as he pulled on his pants. Brando growled. “Yes, eat.” Riccardo’s voice was firm.

Riccardo went to the table that held a bowl of fruit and took out a loaf of bread from a small cabinet. He quickly arranged a few plates with fruit and bread.

“You are out of cheese.”

“Forgive me for being so remiss.”

Riccardo hid his smile at the sarcasm. “I think I will go and eat with Jason and Tim. I do not like a cup of grumpiness with my lunch.”

Brando glared and stomped off. Riccardo smirked and picked up his plate. Brando saw the action reflected in a mirror on the wall and turned, stomped over to Riccardo, and snatched the plate out of his model’s hands.

“Sit.”

Riccardo complied, Brando slamming the plate down on the table. An orange rolled around and Riccardo prevented it from falling to the floor. Brando brought a jug of wine over and filled the goblets, then sat down and sprawled out defiantly.

Riccardo smiled sweetly and sipped his wine. Brando took a big gulp of his wine. Riccardo began to eat and Brando did the same. They ate in complete silence, only muffled voices drifting up from the busy street.

Riccardo was amused as Brando acted like a sullen child. Artistic temperament was his lover’s middle name. Riccardo always made allowance for it, as other artists pitched their little fits, too. Brando just did it so much better than anyone else.

After lunch, Riccardo bid Brando good day and said he would be back bright and early the next morning. He swept grandly out of the room and down the stairs, leaving Brando to fume.

& & & & & &

By the next morning, Brando was all smiles again, and Riccardo nodded approvingly. He cheerfully disrobed and the posing began again.

Brando’s expression was intense as he compared the various poses. He directed his model at first, then allowed Riccardo to come up with the poses.

Riccardo enjoyed the freedom. He liked channeling his creative urges in ways that satisfied him. Working with Brando as an equal was a pleasure and one of the reasons he consented to model for him so often.

“Wait!” Brando’s voice was excited.

Riccardo stayed still. He watched as Brando tilted his head one, way, then another. A smile spread across his face slowly. 

“There! That is it! The perfect pose!”

Riccardo was grateful that the pose would not leave him with aching limbs or a stiff neck. “You are a genius, Brando,” he purred. Brando beamed. It never hurt to gild the lily. 

Brando began sketching, making quick strokes. He was in the throes of creative passion now, which Riccardo could appreciate. He watched Brando at work, admiring those talented hands that could do much more than sketch. He felt his cheeks flush pink. 

“Would you like me to open a window?” Brando asked.

“Um, no,” Riccardo replied. He would have to think of something else. He had no clothes to hide his reactions.

He let his mind drift, only half-listening to Brando’s mutterings. This was his daydreaming time, allowing himself to dream of flying.

Yes, flying. People would think him addled, but he was past caring. He had grown up in an acrobatic troupe and had come the closest any human could to flying.

He had not even told about his desires or his past to Brando. Someday, perhaps, but not today. Today was time for creativity and romping and enjoying life.

So the session went well, and a pleased Brando took Riccardo in his arms and kissed him. Riccardo did not bother to get dressed.

& & & & & &

Brando strolled through the _Piazza della Signoria_ on a splendid spring day. The great works of Florentine sculptors were on display, his own small Greek Girl a popular item. He stopped and put his fists on his hips, studying Cellini’s _Perseus With The Head Of Medusa_ , known as _The Medusa_ for short.

He had to admit, it was a masterpiece. The theme was dramatic with Perseus holding the snake-tressed head of the Medusa he had just cut off. The base showed intricate scenes from the story of Perseus and Andromeda. Cast in bronze, the work was well-known throughout the civilized world.

Most Florentines were accustomed to the statues in the _piazza _and went about their business while barely glancing at them. However, some citizens were art lovers, standing around as they admired the sculptures.__

__Brando walked around to the back of the statue, shaking his head._ _

__“Quite the braggart, eh?”_ _

__Brando’s skin crawled at the sound of the voice at his shoulder but kept his gaze fixed on the back of Perseus’ helmet. “Only Benvenuto would sculpt his face in the back of Perseus’ head.”_ _

__“Very true. Arrogant always.”_ _

__Brando shaded his eyes as he continued staring at the sculptor’s face, hoping that his sudden companion would go away._ _

__“Cellini, bah.” The oily voice whispered in his ear. “He is a dirty catamite.”_ _

__Brando turned his head and glared at the thin man standing next to him. Dressed in the rich finery of a man whose patron was the Medici, Luigi Marcello stroked his beard as dark-brown eyes stared at him maliciously._ _

__“That is a harsh accusation.” And one that could be leveled at many a man in Florence these days._ _

__“But a probable one.”_ _

__“Loose gossip.”_ _

__“So you say.”_ _

__“Yes, I say!” Brando hated his vulnerability. Sleeping with his female models was fine, but sleeping with Riccardo was dangerous. Despite the prevalence of sodomy in Florence, it was better left unsaid, and if you were openly accused and brought before the Office of the Night, even worse. “You know nothing, Marcello.”_ _

__Marcello’s smile was smug and full of malice. “So you say, Venucci.”_ _

__Brando shrugged. He returned to studying the statue._ _

__“Decadent,” Marcello sniffed._ _

__“As for The Medusa, you think you could do better?”_ _

__“Of course. The Medici only sponsor the best.”_ _

__“I know.”_ _

__Marcello frowned. “Mind what I say, Venucci. Sodomites like Cellini and the rest of his perverted kind will feel the wrath of the Church.”_ _

__“Only if he is guilty.” _And he’s got a lot of company.__ _

__“Oh, I know he is. I have connections with the Office of the Night.”_ _

__Brando looked at the hawkish face of his fellow sculptor. “No doubt.” Marcello glared. Brando smiled and said, “Enjoy the day, Luigi.” He strutted away without looking back._ _

__He missed the calculating glint in Luigi Marcello’s eyes._ _


	3. The Office Of The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danger lurks for Brando and Riccardo.

_“There shall be established a panel for the purpose of investigating the crime of sodomy in our fair city of Florence called The Office Of The Night henceforth.”_

  


**_City Government_**  
**_Proclamation_**  
**Florence, Italy**  
**1432 C.E.**

  
Riccardo snuggled up to Brando in the sculptor’s bed. The filmy curtain was pulled and he felt safe, especially with Brando’s muscular arms curled around him as he slept.

Riccardo admired his lover’s face as the moonlight touched its rough beauty. He gently ran a finger through Brando’s wild, thick mane of hair.

Did he love this blustery man? He was a creative genius, gifted by God in so many ways: painter, sculptor, jeweler. Yet despite his confidence, he tended to drink too much, and he was not a happy drunk. Did he want to tie himself to a man with a fondness for the grape?

Riccardo regarded his companion solemnly. Despite the darkness within the man, he was still strongly attracted to him. Physically he was a fine specimen, but even more alluring was his compassion and generosity. He had taken in Jason and Tim when they needed someone, and he treated them very well, even giving them coins now and again for their spending pleasure.

Certainly Brando was generous with him. The pay was good and the fringe benefits were excellent. He smiled a _very_ satisfied smile. He would be sore for a day or two, but it was a good soreness as far as he was concerned.

This project was a good one. Brando was already famous, but this work might catapult him into the category of eternal. Michelangelo was already there, and Cellini had probably arrived with The Medusa. Da Vinci was the gold standard, head-and-shoulders above them all.

_Your time has come, amico mio._

He began to drift off back to sleep when he heard muffled noises downstairs. Tim and Jason were supposed to be asleep. Were they arguing or horsing around?

A creak on the stairs tensed his muscles. Tim and Jason did not sneak around. His stomach dropped as his mind screamed, _Someone else is climbing the stairs!_

He jabbed his elbow into Brando’s ribs. His companion yelped and Riccardo quickly put a hand over his mouth. “Hush,” Riccardo hissed. “Someone’s sneaking up the stairs.”

He was grateful that Brando had not over-imbibed and became alert immediately as he growled a savage curse.

“Exit stage right,” Riccardo whispered in Brando’s ear, and the older man grinned.

& & & & & &

The moonlight made stealth easier than usual, which pleased the intruder. His men had the two apprentices downstairs under control. Now to catch the catamites in the act.

Arturo Stromboli had rooted out his share of perverted sodomites in the past five years for the Office of the Night, Florence’s anti-sodomy legal council. What was known as ‘Greek Love’ was shamefully practiced in Florence by the thousands, it seemed, rivaling even the perversion of the Holy City of Rome. 

He knew the dirty little secret of the Vatican: they railed against sodomy while a good number of their priests practiced exactly that in private rooms and alcoves, furtive and grasping as the common folk were taught to despise those who committed such unnatural acts. The irony did not escape him, but the pay for this kind of work was too good to pass up.

An anonymous tip had him invading the dwelling of Brando Venucci this night. Stromboli noted the layout of the room with a practiced eye. The sin of Greek Love was almost endemic among the artist community. He had raided many a studio to catch the sinners, and the moonlight streamed through the windows to illuminate a path to the bed. Perfect! A curtain was draped across it. It would make a fine dramatic gesture when he pulled it back.

Arturo Stromboli stalked his prey with an anticipatory smile.

& & & & & &

Downstairs, Jason and Timotheus glared at their captors. Bound and gagged, they were unable to warn their Master and Riccardo. They exchanged worried looks. Catamites were no strangers to Florence, but discretion was essential, and if someone caught you in bed, it went badly for you.

It could be the end of everything.

& & & & & &

Stromboli saw the shadowy outline behind the filmy curtain. His fingers flexed in anticipation. Oh, this would be grand! He would nab another insufferable artist and his model. Brando Venucci was especially arrogant, and he would enjoy this arrest, oh, yes, indeed. He reached out his hand and grasped the edge of the curtain, yanking it back with an “Ah, ha!” on his lips.

& & & & & &

Jason glared at their sniggering captors while Timotheus gripped the arms of his chair with white knuckles. They were tied with rope, annoying but effective. Timotheus wished he knew how to get out of ropes like a magician in a traveling minstrel show. He…his head jerked up as he heard a shout upstairs.

& & & & & &

“What is this?” roared Brando.

Stromboli glared at him. “Where is he?”

“Who?” Brando was sitting up, barely covered by the sheet.

“Your catamite.”

Brando’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your tongue."

“That is what he is.”

“I do not sleep with men! You have your nerve, breaking into my abode and accusing me of such a thing.”

It was Stromboli’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Where is he?”

Brando leaped out of bed, causing Stromboli to step back. “Do you see anyone here? Get out before I call the _policia,_ you housebreaker!”

Stromboli was not easily chased away, however. “Your model never left this building,” he sneered. 

“So now you are spying on me?” Brando strode to the head of the stairs and yelled down, “Jason! Timotheus! Go to the _policia!”_ Silence. “What have you done to my apprentices?”

“They are fine, Venucci. Tell me where your catamite is.”

In all his naked glory, Brando stalked toward Stromboli. “If you do not get out right now with your low-born cutpurses, I will throw you down the stairs headfirst.”

Said in a quiet, cold voice, Brando’s threat was all the more chilling than if he had shouted. Stromboli was a robust man who could brawl with the best of them, but he had recently suffered a leg injury that would make the outcome of a fight with the muscular Brando an iffy thing, who could probably make good on his threat. In this business, he knew when to make a strategic retreat. Cursing, he stomped to the stairs but pointed a finger at Brando. 

“Your sins will see you in the dungeons, Venucci.”

Brando crossed his arms across his broad chest but said nothing as a storm cloud revolved around his head.

Stromboli clattered down the stairs and Brando quickly pulled on a pair of breeches and tunic. He listened until he was sure everyone was gone except for his boys. He moved swiftly to the bed and knelt on it, opening the window. A smiling Riccardo climbed in from the ledge. He was wearing a pair of breeches and boots.

“Is the Inquisitor gone?”

“Oh, yes.” Brando pulled Riccardo close and kissed him happily.

Footsteps clambered up the stairs and the lovers broke off their embrace. Jason and Timotheus popped in breathlessly.

“Where the hell did you hide Riccardo?” Jason asked.

“Out on the ledge.” Riccardo smiled. He rested his arm on Brando’s shoulder and struck a casual pose.

Timotheus laughed. “You two are something else!”

“As are you,” Riccardo said. “I am wagering you put up quite a fight?”

Jason thumped his fist into his palm. “You would be right.” 

Timotheus frowned. “They are sure to be watching this place. How can you leave, Riccardo, without proving you were here all along?”

Brando smiled conspiratorially. “Come with me.”

Curiosity was the order of the day as Riccardo, Jason, and Timotheus followed Brando down the stairs. He led them to a storeroom and pulled aside an old, tattered curtain at the back. 

“A door!” Timotheus exclaimed.

“Correct.” Brando opened the door with a key he took down from the lintel. He opened it and eager faces fell into disappointment.

“Empty,” Timotheus said while Jason scowled and Riccardo puted.

“Surely, on the surface. But look below.”

All looked down at the floor. Jason said, “Wait a minute!” He crouched for a better look. “It appears to be a trapdoor!”

“Excellent observation, my apprentice.” Brando opened the trapdoor after pulling a small ring. The door creaked and groaned but revealed a black hole. A musty smell drifted up from the depths.

“What is this, Brando?” Riccardo asked, his curiosity aflame.

“Come and see.” The older man’s grin was impish.

Riccardo and the two apprentices trusted Brando not to lead them into danger, and they followed him down into the darkness via an old, wooden ladder, which creaked perilously but held.

The musty smell was much stronger. Suddenly light flared as Brando lit a torch he took from a wall holder. Shadows danced on stone walls as Brando began to move down the passageway. 

It was not a long distance, for which Riccardo was grateful. The ceiling was low and the passage narrow. He was also grateful that he had grabbed Brando’s shirt before leaving the upper floor as it was chilly in these tunnels.

“Catacombs under Florence?” Timotheus asked, intrigued.

“Nothing elaborate,” Brando said. “But, very handy, as you will see.”

They reached another ladder and all climbed up, emerging into a small room similar to the one in Brando’s house.

“What is this place?” Timotheus asked.

“An abandoned house a few blocks down from my place.” Brando smiled. “And how you are getting out of my house, Riccardo.”

Riccardo smiled and nodded.

Let the Office of the Night post its spies. He and Brando would own the night.


	4. The Great Project

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Great Project continues, there are spies everywhere.

_The Sculptor’s hands_  
_Caress cold marble_  
_And teases_  
_Beauty_  
_Out of_  
_Unyielding stone._

_He breathes his soul_  
_Out into the stone_  
_And transforms it_  
_Into living flesh._

  


**Dimitrio Pallas**  
**“The Sculptor’s Art”**  
**353 B.C.E.**

  


  
Brando Venucci’s most ambitious project began with ‘all hands on deck’, as he said. The buzz of activity filled the house as Jason and Timotheus reviewed the procedures for sculpture work and Brando continued sketching Riccardo. The excitement of creativity was everywhere.

Brando and his Household also kept an eye out for Stromboli’s minions. Jason said sardonically, “Thug in the market at the vegetable stall” and Timotheus declared a man who sat at the café every day was suspicious. Brando was tempted to confront him but decided that stealth was best for the moment.

Brando began work on his _bozzetti,_ a small clay model of his Grand Project. He worked intently as Jason and Timotheus studied his sculpture designs. Riccardo wrote on foolscap with a quill, the feather wafting as he scribbled a letter to a friend in Greece, then he concentrated on poetry. He also watched the stages of the sculpture process and recorded that as well. 

He also kept an eye on the spies in the piazza. He was expert at distracting people with his flamboyant clothes and gestures, observing the observers. He used the secret tunnel on a daily basis, staying most nights with Brando, who had reinforced the front and back doors with heavier beams as bolts.

Jason and Timotheus supervised the baking of the _bozzetti_ in the kiln, and the object was kept in a box once it cooled. The four of them ate supper together, the boys chattering away as they recounted gossip from around town. No one mentioned the sinister forces outside their house of safety, preferring to talk of frivolous things. There would be time enough for serious discussions, but for now there was freshly-baked bread, cheese, and good fruit and wine.

That evening in their shared bed, Riccardo said, “Your talent will outshine all, my Great Sculptor.”

Brando smiled. “High praise from you, my Beauty.”

Riccardo kissed his lover deeply, wrapping his legs around Brando’s. “Take me, my Great One.”

Brando laughed and said, “With pleasure.”

& & & & & &

The next step was to arrange for the block of marble to be delivered after Brando’s visit to the quarry. The quarry master was exceedingly courteous. The business of Florence was art, and artists, especially sculptors, needed marble.

Brando brought along his two apprentices for teaching purposes, and Riccardo tagged along out of curiosity. Brando inspected the marble, discussing specifications with Signor Alcazari, whose sharp eyes peered out from a weatherbeaten face. He knew how to handle difficult artists.

Brando was surprisingly cooperative. He had no particular requests except that the quarry deliver the dimensions he wanted. Alcazari assured him that that he would deliver. 

“Very well,” Brando said after negotiations for price were completed, his entourage grinning amongst themselves as he drove a hard but fair bargain.

“A pleasure doing business with you, _Signor_ Venucci. Cellini had to use bronze for his _Medusa,_ and bypassed my poor marble quarry.”

Brando clapped a hand on Alcazari’s shoulder. “No worries, my friend. Marble will stay my material of choice.”Alcazari beamed. Brando snapped his fingers and said, “Come!”

Riccardo, Jason and Timotheus followed with amusement plastered on their faces.

& & & & & &

Brando studied the _bozzetti._ A good miniature, but how to make the grand statue?

Riccardo awoke in bed and saw Brando sprawled in a chair as he gazed at the _bozzetti_ in the moonlight. Wearing only breeches, the sculptor’s hair was wilder than ever. Riccardo got out of bed, walking toward the table. He put his hand on a warm, bare shoulder.

“What do you see?”

“You. Immortal.”

Riccardo smiled. “Always a wordsmith, _caro mio.”_

Brando chuckled. “You are one yourself.”

“We make a good pair.”

“Yes.” Brando looked up at Riccardo. “We do.”

Riccardo embraced him.  
When they parted, Brando said as he gestured expansively, “See how the moonlight caresses the _bozzetti?_ Every curve, every muscle? With love and passion!”

“As do you.”

The lovers smiled as they returned to bed.

& & & & & &

The block of marble arrived and there was a flurry of activity by all concerned. Fortunately the ceiling was high enough to handle this block. Timotheus and Jason laid out all the tools: hammer, chisels, pick. Timotheus ran to get the apron Brando would wear. He always got a new one before each major sculpture project. Riccardo sat in a comfortable chair, helping when needed.

Brando was absorbed by the sculpting but was also aware of Riccardo watching. Pleased at his lover’s attention, he worked with even more energy than usual.

Riccardo drank a hot chocolate while he ate apple slices. He felt very relaxed while the house buzzed with activity. This pleased him, as the world of creativity was one in which he felt extremely comfortable.

His senses were alive: the delicately bitter sweetness of the chocolate, the stronger sweetness of the apple, the touch of the smooth porcelain cup, the smell of marble dust in the air, the sound of the hammer striking the chisel and the sight of the muscular Brando as he wielded the hammer, his shoulders and arms bare as he wore only the apron and breeches. Sweat gleamed on his skin as he worked.

All-in-all, it was a very satisfactory setting, one which Riccardo allowed his indulgence.

The day went well, and in the late afternoon Riccardo left his chair and went upstairs. He changed into dark clothes and wore a hat that shadowed his features. He went back downstairs and left the house, via the back door, everyone else too absorbed in their tasks to notice his departure.

The day was cool with clouds overhead but still fine for spring. Riccardo crossed the piazza to the café and sat at a table outside. He was certain that no one was watching the back door at this time of day so his disguise should work. He ordered a cappuccino and waited.

Someone had to be pushing this case. Men with influence could usually wiggle out of severe punishments and despite the Office’s reputation, many cases quietly went away with the right bribe. Who had Brando crossed?

Yes, there was a spy over in the carpet stall. The vendor was keeping a sharp eye on the Venucci house. At the fruit stall, a prospective customer lingered a little too long. The Office of the Night was busy during the day.

Riccardo sipped his drink as he kept his attention on the occupants of the piazza. The vendors were doing a brisk business as the afternoon wore on, people hurrying out to buy last-minute ingredients for supper. Riccardo noted the change of spies as dusk approached and he drank his third cappuccino. He was just getting ready to leave the café when a pair of men sat down at the table next to him. A large, flowering plant in a pot obscured him from view.

Riccardo noted their expensive clothing. The older man was bearded while the clean-shaven youth sighed as he said, “Nothing is working out, Adolfo.”

“Mercutio, you are so impatient.”

“Life is meant to be lived at a fast pace!”

Riccardo smiled at the youth’s pouting tone. A lovers’ spat, mayhaps? 

“Stromboli’s on the prowl. We will have to be careful.” The older man sounded worried.

“Stromboli, pah!”

“You had better watch yourself. Stromboli is a Master Hunter for the Office of the Night.”

“He is a thug,” Mercutio said flatly.

“Be that as it may, you still should be wary,” Adolfo said.

“Bah!”

“Bah will put you in chains.”

“Now _that_ could be interesting.”

Riccardo nearly laughed at Mercutio’s enthusiasm. He finished his cappuccino and suddenly noticed the carpet dealer eyeing the couple. He stood and walked over to the table, pretending to head inside. He dropped his purse and bent down to retrieve it and spoke quietly.

“The carpet dealer is an Office spy. So is the customer with the blue scarf.” The latter had been hanging around various stalls after leaving the fruit stall.

Mercutio began to turn around but Adolfo kicked his leg under the table. “Stay calm, my boy.” Mercutio pretended to be very interested in his scarf while Adolfo said, “Thank you, kind sir.”

Riccardo stood, his hat tilting as Adolfo saw his face. Riccardo pushed his hat back down and gave him a quick nod, disappearing inside the café.

When he came out ten minutes later, Adolfo and Mercutio were gone.

& & & & & &

“Where were you this afternoon?” Brando asked as he and his companion got ready for bed.

“Spying on the spies.”

Brando froze. “What?”

Riccardo explained. “Who did you cross, anyway?”

“Name half of Florence,” Brando grinned. 

“Ha, ha, quite the jolly jester. Come on, think. Has anyone shown any particular animus toward you?”

Brando frowned. “Luigi Marcello.”

“Marcello? What conflict have you gotten into with him?”

Brando told him about that day in the Piazza della Signorio. Riccardo sighed. “Of course he is the one!”

“Most likely.” Brando fluffed up the pillows.

“Why are you not concerned?”

“Marcello has connections with the Office. I do not. We can only be careful.”

“I suppose.”

Brando climbed into bed and held out his hand. “Come on aboard.”

Riccardo smiled and joined his lover while shaking his head.

& & & & & &

As the days stretched into summer the block of marble gradually took shape. Riccardo posed for other artists on some days, and watched the work on the other days, helping Timotheus and Jason when necessary. He also kept an eye on the spies situated outside.

At night he used the tunnel to get back into the house after leaving in the late afternoon, in full view of the spies. He disliked the tunnel, feeling too closed in, but it was certainly handy to have around.

Summer in Florence could be uncomfortable in the heat, so Brando took a few days off and took Riccardo and his apprentices up to Lake Como. They swam, fished, and sailed in small rowboats. They occupied a small but comfortable cabin.

“What, no palatial villa?” Riccardo teased.

“Of course not. I am but a poor artist.”

Riccardo laughed. “So put-upon, _amico mio.”_

& & & & & &

The time away from Florence did everyone good. When they returned to the city, Brando tackled his project with rejuvenated enthusiasm. Everyone threw themselves back into their work, eager to see the Great Project to its conclusion.

Whether or not they would be free to complete it depended upon the events of the next twenty-four hours.


	5. Just A Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Brando and Riccardo survive persecution by the Office Of The Night?

_Greatness shines_  
_From cold marble,_  
_Evoking warm flesh,_  
_And smiling lips._

_True genius_  
_Grabs the sun_  
_And creates_  
_Man._

  


**Christopher Botticelli**  
**Italian Poet  
** **_“True Genius”_**  
**1559 C.E.**

****

  
“You are a genius, Brando Venucci.” Riccardo’s lavish praise was heartfelt as he looked at the emerging statue. 

Brando beamed. “I had a beautiful subject.”

“Of course.” Riccardo bowed elaborately.

Brando laughed and pulled Riccardo into an embrace. A knock on the door broke them apart.

Timotheus ran to the door. “Who is it?”

 _“Signore_ Genovese Bertelli.”

“Let him in,” said Brando.

Timotheus obeyed and slid back the bolt, opening the thick, wooden door. A plump, well-dressed man with longish gray hair stylishly turned up under his blue velvet beret entered. Bright blue eyes surveyed the house, alighting on the half-shaped marble.

“I see it is coming along.”

“Yes, Geno.”

The visitor studied the sculpture. “I can assure you that the Guild will accept your application to place this work in the Piazza della Signoria.”

_“Grazie.”_

Genovese interlaced his fingers over his belly. “Luigi Marcello has been conducting a preemptive campaign against you.” 

“I would expect nothing less.” Brando shook his head in mock gravity. “Envy is a terrible thing.”

“Yes.” Genovese sounded amused. “Terrible.”

“All I care about is my work.”

“This work is worth your attention.” Genovese walked around the statue, pausing in back. “I see that you are using your favorite model.”

“I have not started on the face.”

Genovese smirked. “I am not talking about the _face.”_

Brando’s eyes glittered in amusement while Riccardo puffed out his chest. The apprentices snickered.

“I ask that you keep this under your beret,” Brando asked.

 _“Si, si._ Nothing until the unveiling.”

“How about some wine, Geno?”

The older man shook his head. “Next time, eh? I will see you soon, Brando.”

After Genovese’s departure, Brando said, “Geno is a good man.”

”His warning should keep you sharp, Master,” said Jason as he balled his fists.

“It will. It is getting too close to the end to slip up now.”

& & & & & &

Late that afternoon, Riccardo left through the front door and went to his rooms in a building located in a neighborhood known for its artistic residents. After changing into fresh clothes, a half hour later he slipped out the back and to the abandoned house with the tunnel entrance.

He noticed some litter in the house, scraps of cloth or food wrappings and empty wine bottles. He was not surprised. Abandoned property attracted squatters. He went into the storeroom and down into the dark tunnel, grateful that the house was empty at the moment. Most likely the partying went on in the wee hours instead of the early evening.

He emerged from the storeroom and Brando lifted a glass of wine. “Just in time, _caro mio!”_

“What is the occasion, Brando?”

“Just time to celebrate, Riccardo. Right, boys?”

Jason and Timotheus smiled, nodding their heads eagerly. Riccardo laughed as he took the glass from Brando.

“Let us make merry!”

There was dancing and music (Riccardo and Timotheus played the mandolin and flute well), feasting and drinking. Laughter filled the air and it was a fine evening spent in the shadow of the statue. 

There was a pounding at the front door. Everyone turned.

“Open up!”

“Stromboli!” Timotheus gasped.

“Better hop into the tunnel,” Jason said to Riccardo while Brando frowned.

Riccardo ran to the storeroom and went into the tunnel while Jason followed and covered up the trapdoor. Down in the tunnel, Riccardo lit a torch and hurried along the passageway. He shivered at the dampness, its cloying fingers plucking at his clothes. He hoped that Stromboli would not stumble upon the trapdoor.

He reached the end of the tunnel and climbed up the ladder into the other storeroom. When he emerged from the trapdoor he frowned. Were those voices he heard?

He cracked open the door, appalled to see a group of young men milling around with many wine bottles in their possession. There were already plenty of empties scattered around.

He swore under his breath. This was a complication he did not need!

Riccardo pondered his situation. Perhaps waiting in here until they left was best. Annoying, as the storeroom was stuffy, but better than the tunnel. He covered the entrance up with a threadbare rug and was just about to search for a hiding place when a loud voice at the door startled him. He froze as the door opened, a drunken youth stumbling against it.

“Hey, Alfonso, get back here!”

“Wha’ for?” Alfonso could barely stand up. He had not looked inside the storeroom.

“Come on, Alfonso!”

The youth giggled and stumbled back toward his friends.

Riccardo quietly shut the door. There was no place to hide. He swallowed. Back to the tunnel.

& & & & & &

Stromboli and five men spilled through the door after Timotheus opened it.

“Trying again?” Brando asked.

Stromboli waved a piece of foolscap. “The Office Of The Night will search this house. Also your catamite’s place.” 

Brando knew that Riccardo was on his way to his building. Hopefully he would beat them back there.

Brando gestured Jason and Timotheus over to him. Timotheus had thrown the cloth over the statue. Stromboli and his thugs were looking for a flesh-and-blood man, not a marble one, so they ignored it.

The search was not a long one. One thug opened the storeroom door and looked in but shut it again. Brando, Timotheus and Jason all breathed easier.

Stromboli’s dark eyes glared at Brando. “You are a slippery one, Brando Venucci.”

“Coming from you, I consider that a compliment.”

& & & & & &

Riccardo stood at the foot of the ladder. Were the invaders finished with their search? Could he go back up to Brando? He started to climb up.

& & & & & &

“There must be a hiding place around here,” Stromboli mused, tapping his chin with his index finger. He looked around and his eyes alighted on the storeroom door. A cunning gleam appeared in his eyes. He started toward the storeroom.

Brando was proud of his apprentices. Neither youth gave away their apprehension as Stromboli strode toward the door.

& & & & & &

Riccardo reached the top of the ladder and listened. It was quiet…wait…

& & & & & &

Stromboli turned the handle and pushed the door open. It banged against the wall.

& & & & & &

Riccardo flinched and lost his balance, refraining from crying out as he fell off the ladder.

& & & & & &

“Come out, come out, Catamite! Are you rolled up in that old, dusty carpet? Hiding behind that cracked, full-length mirror? Hidden in that old, warped wardrobe? Let us see.”

Stromboli turned the handle just as Genovese Bertelli walked in through the open front door. He was followed by a stout man in constable dress.

“Now, what have we here?” Genovese asked.

“A search by the Office Of The Night, Councilor,” said Stromboli.

“All right, fine. You have searched. Now go.”

“We are not finished.”

“Yes, you are. Is that not right, Constable Bonacelli?”

Bonacelli nodded. “Very right, Councilor Bertelli.”

“You have no right to throw us out before we are finished!” Stromboli protested.

“You are finished,” said Bonacelli firmly.

Stromboli’s eyes narrowed but he did not argue further. He had been in this game long enough to recognize political clout when he saw it. He gestured angrily to his men.

“And there will be no more searches or spying,” Genovese said. He cut Stromboli’s protest off. “You have found nothing after weeks of spying. Leave this Household in peace.” He waved his hand. “I am sure you can find new cases for your spyglass.”

Stromboli stomped out and his men slammed the door behind them. 

Genovese laughed. “I told you I take care of my artists.” The Councilor walked close to Brando. “Adolfo Gemelli tipped them off.”

“Why? I only know him by reputation.”

“Seems Riccardo helped him avoid this same situation the other day.”

“Ah. Thank him for me.”

Genovese smiled. “Enjoy your evening, Brando.”

After the Councilor and Constable Bonacelli left, Jason asked, “Is Riccardo waiting in the tunnel?”

“He was supposed to go home, but check, anyway.”

Jason nodded and ran to the storeroom. He threw aside the rug and lifted the trapdoor. 

“Riccardo!”

Jason quickly went down the ladder while Brando and Timotheuse rushed to the storeroom.

“Ugh.” Riccardo held his head.

“You all right?” Jason asked.

“Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

Brando was already down the ladder. _“Caro mio!”_

“Just a little fall.”

Brando touched Riccardo’s face. “You are too precious to fall.”

& & & & & &

By autumn, the statue was done. On the night before it was to be hauled away to the Piazza della Signorio for the grand unveiling, Brando, his apprentices and his model made merry.

After the apprentices went to bed, Brando and Riccardo stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they gazed up at the statue, wooden wine goblets in hand.

 _“Magnifico,”_ Riccardo murmured.

“I had a great model.”

“You will be taking your place among the greats, _caro mio,”_ Riccardo said as he smiled.

“I should.” 

Riccardo laughed. “No false modesty for you?”

“No.” Brando lifted his goblet to the statue. “To Riccardo, my finest work!”

His companion beamed with pride at the statue’s title. “Just a name, eh? Like Michelangelo’s _David?”_

“You are more beautiful than _David.”_

Riccardo proudly accepted the compliment. He and Brando clinked goblets and drank the rich wine. 

The moonlight streamed in through the windows, illuminating the statue in ways that Brando appreciated very much. Every curve, every sinew, every expanse of smooth flesh was nearly perfect, but somehow he had managed to capture Riccardo’s personality, which was not perfect but human.

Brando looked at Riccardo, who smiled and tossed away his empty goblet. Brando did the same and grasped his lover’s shoulders. He drew Riccardo to him and as they kissed, they dropped to the floor onto a thick carpet remnant left by someone (or two someones). Cold marble became warm flesh, and let the world stretch out at his feet, Brando thought, as long as it included Riccardo.


End file.
